Room 301
by thecaptainwasstolen
Summary: Not dirty, just fluff with some language. John and Sherlock admit their feelings for each other when something tragic happens. WARNING: possible triggers, dark themes, mentions of non-consensual activities. I don't own Mofftiss unfortunately, just my mind
1. Chapter 1

The floor didn't change, it was still cold and unforgiving against Sherlock's forehead. He tried to muffle his sniffles, blue eyes shut tightly. This couldn't have happened. He had just been walking, he always walked, what was different, what was the variable he missed? Exhausted, Sherlock huffed out a low breath, waiting for the inevitable. John. John mustn't know, he would be repelled. He would leave. His John. Sherlock gave in to the welcoming darkness in his brilliant mind.

John paced Lestrade's office, rubbing his eyes. Sherlock Holmes had been missing for 28 hours, and all the Scotland Yard inspector wanted to do was send out teams of men. "I'm just saying, Lestrade, it isn't like him to disappear for hours, especially when he's upset. I think we should start looking, not send out search parties… Not yet." he snapped, his patience wearing thin. He watched Lestrade's eyes widen slightly, but the other man didn't comment on it. The only thing that mattered was getting Sherlock back, where he belonged. (_John's arms_) The thought crawled unbidden into John's mind, and he banished it as quickly as it came. Sherlock wasn't interested in him, and he needed to focus.

The darkness broke in Sherlock's mind, and he flinched in anticipation, but the hands upon his were different, this time. There were more voices now, calling out codes and numbers he didn't want to make sense of. He wanted to ask of John, did they know John Watson. Sherlock heard sirens shattering the almost peace of the air, and more voices, gruff and harsh this time. Victim, attackers, how is he doing, what do we tell them, will he recover, medication, words words words swirling around him. He sighed and let himself be shuttled onto a medical gurney. More soft hands, people whispering, tiny pricks on his arms, slight pressure on his wrist again. Sherlock hoped John wasn't working tonight.

"What do you mean, I'm not allowed? He's my bloody flat mate, I'm the only friend he's got, what the hell is going on, Lestrade?" John watched the inspector's mouth moving, his brow crinkling. Words weren't making sense anymore, no one was answering, something was very wrong. The doctor continued his frantic pacing, trying to piece together what he could overhear. Sherlock Holmes - found in warehouse - too much - not enough time - where's Watson - room 301 - ambulance - under arrest - John shook his head, confused. Sherlock would know what it meant, him and his shockingly blue eyes, he always knew. He needed to think harder, think like Sherlock, Sherlock, high cheekbones gorgeous curls adorable nose thin limbs, John's Sherlock.

John found himself struggling through the people, pushing frantically to get to the room ahead. Nurses and doctors and patients and orderlies and visitors flew by as he focused solely on the number ahead, one number, he knew by heart. Room 301. The ambulance would have brought him to this hospital, if he had been found in the warehouses close to Sherlock's usual route. It was maddeningly simple. Sherlock would have a laugh with him later about it, John was sure. Suddenly, his feet stopped working. Standing in the doorway, John Watson felt a tear rivulet down his cheek. There he was, the most beautiful man in existence, surrounded by tubes and wires and monitors. It wasn't fair.

Sherlock heard scuffling footsteps in the door way stop abruptly. The same footsteps he heard outside his door some mornings, if he pretended to be asleep. The same footsteps he heard in the kitchen, making tea early in the morning. John. Sherlock heard a slight shifting of breath, quick inhalation and then a slow release. He winced, knowing what John must be thinking. Suddenly, voices at the end of the hallway, and Lestrade, ordering, "Someone get Watson out of here." Someone, Donovan, Sherlock knew, was leading John back down the hallway, John's hitched breathing becoming faint. "Sherlock? I know you can hear me. They said you were awake." Lestrade awkwardly shifted at the end of the hospital bed. "Are you, I dunno, okay?" Sherlock opened his eyes, sighing, "Lestrade, you know as well as I do that is the most idiotic thing you have ever uttered."

"You mean, he caught a rapist? He, he caught him, right?" John pleaded desperately, his eyes searching Donovan's. She began again, "John, I'm sorry, I know how hard this must be, please, just listen-" John felt himself cracking slowly, English becoming fuzzy in his ears, his vision blurring around the edges. It couldn't be. This was Sherlock Holmes, he couldn't have. He wouldn't have let himself. John knew Sherlock, he was there, why hadn't he stopped Sherlock from leaving? What if Sherlock blamed him? He couldn't stand it. He stood up and began walking, back down the long hallway. He felt Donovan's gaze on his back, knew she wouldn't bother stopping him this time. John needed to speak with Sherlock, he had to know he was okay, Sherlock had to be okay.

Lestrade looked up, his eyes carefully searching Sherlock's. "Hm. I'm presuming Donovan is informing John of my… Of this." Sherlock glanced down at his bruised hands. "Of course." Lestrade answered, looking as though he wanted to reach out and comfort the other man, but didn't. "Sherlock, I need an official report. You'll have to tell me what happened." the inspector murmured, his eyes searching Sherlock's again. "Naturally. You will have my full cooperation." he found himself trembling a bit, and stilled himself. Sherlock had to be strong, in no one else but for John. Lestrade blew out the large breath he had been holding, "Okay… Well, whenever you're ready, you know where my office is. And, Sherlock, if you need anything…" Glancing up, Sherlock gave a curt nod.

John reached room 301 in time to see Lestrade stand from his chair, a small grimace on his face. He glanced at John as he passed, whispering, "Be careful. He's still processing." John nodded, his eyes finding the bright blue ones ahead. "Sherlock." the name fell from his lips, full of unspoken agony. "I do not blame you. You should not blame yourself, John." said the man in the hospital bed, drawing his knees up to his chest. "How, uh, how bad is it? Will you be back at the flat soon?" John blurted out, desperate to hear Sherlock's voice again. (_really he's talking to you and you can't think of anything more intelligent?_) A small half smile graced Sherlock's lips, and he indicated for John to sit in the chair Lestrade previously occupied. "I will recover. I will be home shortly, they are finished with my tests." he answered quietly, and John felt Sherlock's eyes on him as he sat down.

Sherlock struggled to keep his voice steady, watching John's slow movements carefully. He felt something in the air, something that wasn't new but had never been spoken. Sherlock waited, his eyes roving John's face, mapping it out mentally and memorizing it. "I want to kill him." John's voice broke, his shoulders shaking with anger and pain. "Please don't. I would miss you if you went to prison." Sherlock felt his lips curve up in response to John's strained laughter. "God, I love you, Sherlock." Something froze in Sherlock's mind, his mouth fell open slightly, the words tumbling out before he could stop them, "I love you too, John." How curious. John simply looked at him, his eyes churning with a sea of emotions. Sherlock felt himself flushing, closing his eyes as he stood on the verge of apologizing. Before he could utter another word, John's lips were against his own, gentle and kind. The small pressure made him inhale softly, his eyes flying open to meet John's.

John felt Sherlock's lips part beneath his own, his heart ready to simply burst. Sherlock had said it. He loved John. A thin cold hand found his own, and he wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's. When they broke the kiss, Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's. "I wish, I would like to cuddle when we get home." John found himself stumbling over the words, "But it's okay if you want space, I understand-" He didn't want to push Sherlock, but he knew it might help if Sherlock felt safe. John wanted to crawl up into the hospital bed and rock the taller man in his arms. How dare someone hurt his Sherlock. John softly rubbed Sherlock's fingers with his own, Sherlock smiled again (_three times in one day, you must be doing something right_) and he softly squeezed John's hand. "I would like that, John," Sherlock whispered into the warm space between them.

Lestrade walked down the hallway, pulling his hand across his face. This was going to be the worst week of his life and he knew it. Reaching room 301, the inspector stopped in his tracks. John Watson was holding hands with Sherlock Holmes, and both men were staring at each other with such warmth, Lestrade found himself smiling slightly. (_it's about damn time, those two were horrid about avoiding it) Maybe it wasn't going to be so bad, after all. John would figure out how to help Sherlock, he always did. _


	2. Chapter 2

The bed shifted as Sherlock sat upright, his chest heaving. "John, John, wake up-" his high-pitched voice begged, hands roaming the bed for his flatmate, well, boyfriend now. John twitched, then shot up, instinctively pulling Sherlock closer. (_oh god where is he fix this_) "Hey, it's okay." the doctor fumbled for words, shocked at the way Sherlock was trembling in his arms. Feeling rather silly, he patted the other man's head, then settled for rubbing his back gently. Sherlock jumped slightly at the gentle touch, then relaxed as no pain followed it. Two thin, cold hands softly rested on his chest, and Sherlock's leg twined itself around one of John's. "I know, it's okay," John found himself babbling hopefully calming phrases, feeling Sherlock's tremors subside slowly. At last, the taller man's breathing evened out, although John still felt an occasional tear slide across the beautiful cheekbones.

Sherlock felt his ears burning as he buried himself in John's chest, the initial pain of the dream fading slowly. He clenched his jaw, willing the small drops of saltwater to stop making tracks down his face. He could feel John relaxing around him, the familiar scent that was just so… John, surrounding Sherlock in a sea of calm. It was comforting, more so than the nonsense John was uttering, anyway. "John… I am alright now." he murmured, feeling John tense slightly at the sound of his voice. "Are you positive, Sherlock? I mean, we don't have to move, I promise you're safe now," Sherlock felt John's hesitation to release him. He tightened his arms around his boyfriend (_that's nice to say_), "I'd rather not move, John." "Of course, Sherlock." Waiting for John's breathing to even out, Sherlock measured time with the soft huffs of air that brushed his crown. John smelled nice, he noted, and set about to memorizing the slightly musky, spicy scent that engulfed him.

John woke up with his face buried in a head of curls. (_well this is odd_) Sherlock twitched in his arms, blue eyes snapping wide open before they recognized John. Of course. Yesterday had happened. "Mmm… John?" a small voice came from within his arms, snapping him back to the warm bed. "Yeah. Yes, what is it, Sherlock? Is something wrong?" John couldn't keep the tinge of concern out of his voice. Suddenly, he felt the hands pressed against his chest shifting, almost nervously. Sherlock? Nervous? "I, um, I would like to move." "Oh. Right. Sorry." John blushed again, loosening his death grip on Sherlock. The taller man stretched carefully, then curled back up into John's side. Watching the bruised wrists twist and rub each other, John felt sick as he remembered why he hadn't slept well last night. His inner doctor spoke up, naming off things he didn't want to hear. "Do you want to go to the station today?" he asked, knowing Lestrade would call sooner or later. Sherlock sighed and shook his head, and John began looping the inky curls around his fingers. "I'll be right there with you." "I know."

Groaning inwardly, Sherlock knew he would have to face the proverbial lion's den sooner than later. John's soft breath feathered across his forehead, and he found himself leaning into the warmth. Staying here, in this bed with John was what Sherlock really wanted to do. With a small wince, he sat up and finally got a good look at John. The other man looked as though he hadn't slept at all, his grey eyes tired. He probably hadn't, Sherlock knew he talked quite frequently in his sleep. John squirmed under Sherlock's examination, running a hand through his sandy hair. "I don't like this." Sherlock stated, and swung his long legs out of their bed. (_their theirs that was nice too_) He felt John's gaze on his back and heard the other man's intake of breath. "Sherlock… My God." Feigning indifference, Sherlock glanced back at him, "I haven't looked." John's face spoke of horror and anguish. "What did they… God, I don't even want to know." With a grimace, Sherlock pulled his shirt over his messy hair. "You don't have to come today. I don't want you to… Be uncomfortable." "Sherlock, it's for you. I'm not leaving you alone." The emotion in John's voice was almost enough to break his heart.

Silently, John watched Sherlock finish getting dressed, The scars and deep purple bruises that littered his back stood out in sharp contrast to his alabaster skin. Anger welled up again, leaving a sour taste in John's mouth. God help the bastards who did this if Mycroft found them first. John stopped, considering if Sherlock had told his brother yet. Probably not. The Holmes brothers weren't on good terms. John sighed, reaching for his phone, he would do it while Sherlock got ready to leave. On the second ring, Mycroft Holmes answered, his customary icy demeanor worked even over the phone. "Mycroft… I need to tell you something about Sherlock. Well, he needs to tell you really, but I know he won't." A small pause echoed before the older Holmes cautiously queried, "So you are telling me. Do I need to be on alert?" John blinked, letting out in a rush of words, "Sherlockwasrapedandnowwe'redatingandhewon'ttellyoueither."

Sherlock smirked at the very obvious sound of John trying to be sneaky. Then he heard his brother's name, and the smirk faded. Of course, how very John. Trying to take care of Sherlock and still be his John. Suddenly, John's voice was a jumble of words and Mycroft's rather apparent reply echoed in the bedroom. Moments later, John stumbled out of their bedroom (_that's still nice_) rubbing his eyes. "I presume my dear brother is now aware." "Sherlock…" Before the detective could reply, Sherlock felt something stab his side, and he gave a ragged breath before collapsing to his knees. "Sherlock!" John's hands were upon his shoulders, sliding down to his wrist, grey eyes focused on his. How curious, the doctor's hands were warm. Suddenly shivering, Sherlock retched, eyes screwed shut. Waves of pain crashed into him repeatedly, and there was a pounding somewhere in his lower back. The sound of a door shattering down was the last thing Sherlock heard, and he smiled slightly as a familiar form stood over the tangled mess of Sherlock and John.

Fear coursing in his veins, John watched as Sherlock slithered to the floor and doubled over, obviously sick. Scooping the thin man up in his arms, the doctor cradled him as he shivered. As Sherlock's eyes fluttered once, twice, the door exploded open, and Mycroft Holmes stood beyond the threshold. "Bring him with you." John complied, little choice in the matter. He tried smoothing Sherlock's hair once they were in the government car outside, unable to form words as Mycroft instructed the driver to the nearest hospital. This wasn't happening. Sherlock had to be okay. The other Holmes whipped around, long fingers catching John's wrist. "Tell me everything you know." Sitting up straight, the soldier in John took control. "He was kidnapped for about 30 hours. They found him in a warehouse, he'd been tortured… And, well. Raped." The older man's face went blank at that, his cold blue eyes unfocused, "And I trust nothing happened last night." Horrified, John caught the implications of that statement, "God, no. He kept me up most the night muttering, but no." Mycroft's features briefly twisted into something similar to a smile. "He always talked in his sleep."

Sherlock twitched, feeling cold sheets surrounding him. His eyes flew open, and John's hand found his immediately. "Sherlock? How do you feel?" Searching the room, Sherlock settled his eyes on his brother and his boyfriend. "My back hurts." John blushed slightly and looked away. Mycroft finally spoke, leaning forward a little, "The doctor said there was… More extensive bruising that they had missed." Nodding slightly, Sherlock closed his eyes. This must be a nightmare. If only the part with John was true... Mycroft spoke again, "It's no nightmare, brother. Lestrade is on his way. I will be leaving now, I have work to do." The expression the older Holmes wore was nothing short of murderous, and John simply rubbed Sherlock's hand in silence. Lestrade's voice entered the room before he did, and Sherlock flinched. "It's just Lestrade. I'm right here, Sherlock." John whispered softly, his eyes on the form of Mycroft and Lestrade apparently talking in the hallway.

John watched carefully as Mycroft strode down the hospital hallway to meet the DI, and slowly he tightened his grip on Sherlock's hand. "John…" "Yes?" John turned his gaze to his boyfriend (_boyfriend that sounds good) and Sherlock tugged him a little closer. Placing soft kisses across Sherlock's bruised knuckles, John helplessly watched as Greg Lestrade made his way down the hall, and the inevitable drew nearer. As much as he knew he loved Sherlock, John wasn't sure how much he could hear without joining Mycroft's surely illegal mission. "John, please stay." Sherlock's small voice broke him, and he nodded, his lips brushing Sherlock's hand one last time. Lestrade stood in the doorway, his eyes full of anxiety, clearly wanting to be anywhere but that small room, filled with it's silence and over-sanitized hospital scent. This was it. _


End file.
